


Yuki's Flowers

by grossrabbits



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Introspection, Kasamatu's only mentioned though, M/M, Pining, apologies for the terrible summary, this is pretty much just Kise reminiscing and thinking about Kasamatsu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grossrabbits/pseuds/grossrabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kise's mind is transfixed on a certain someone while spending another night alone due to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yuki's Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who couldn't think of a title! :D  
> This fic was inspired by the song ‘In Pinks and Golds’ by Unwoman. It just seemed like such a Kikasa song to me.  
> This is my first fic, so thoughts and feelings regarding it are greatly appreciated! I hope you enjoy. ^^

A new bouquet of flowers graced the small corner table of Ryōta's dressing room. Roses, again, although this particular bouquet was more colourful than the monochromatic horde of red - "I love you," it seemed to assert - that was lined up along the countertop. The newcomer had varying tones of the classic colour, along with blushing pinks, and yellows that ought to be referred to as gold. Ryōta felt more drawn to the warm array than to the other ( _unimaginative_ , he thought) flowers, and chuckled when he read the small note tied around the thornless stems: "Dear Kise-kun," the neat, curly writing began, "Thank you for all your hard work, and for making so many of us happy. With love, Yuki." Short, sweet, and simple. _It must be fate_ , said Ryōta's inner voice, amused. He briefly entertained the notion that this was a covert display of affection from a certain someone, but that was it, _briefly_. It was coincidence, or fate, or something.

    A knock at the door reminded Ryōta that he was here to gather his belongings and go to the hotel. Picking up his bag, he looked back at Yuki's bouquet. For the first time in, well, quite a long time, Ryōta took one of his many floral offerings back to his hotel room. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he was sick of being the only living thing in his room, and it would be nice to have some semblance of company at night, even if it said company was a clutch of maimed roses.  
  
    The lights dimmed the assertive crimson horde. How many of their senders would clamber on top of and over the rest, just to be Ryōta's companion for the night? Ryōta had heard enough proclamations of love, some promising it for eternity, to know the very positive answer to that. But none would suffice. Beautiful men and women, often models like himself, gave him looks ranging from shy smiles to sultry stares nearly every day, but he'd grown out of the starry-eyed, idolising phase of his adolescence. Now, nearing his twenty-second birthday, he'd lived the teenage dream, worn it out more than he'd ever thought he would. He now knew what people meant when they said that he'd begin to appreciate the quieter things in life as he got older. He was still young, but living high school a mile a minute like he had done ages a person mentally. He valued freeze-dried coffee in bed just as much as, if not, more than, gourmet espressos in the classiest cafés. He wanted his quaint, one-bedroom apartment, with its petulant shower and tiny galley kitchen more than his luxury suite at the hotel.

    Ryōta's assigned car waited for him in the rear car park of the studios. He thanked the driver who had opened the door for him as he ducked inside, making sure Yuki's flowers were still vibrant and neat in the middle seat. _They'll need a vase as soon as we get in_ , he mentally noted. They began their journey to the hotel.  
  
    Before he and the flowers had left the building, Ryōta had neglected to check the time. He switched his mobile phone on to do just that, but yet again didn't. This time, however, it wasn't due to forgetfulness. This time, it was because the screen that lit up his face in the dark backseat presented him with a scene he would forever be enchanted, and in this case distracted, by. A candid photograph, taken on a still evening over a year ago.

    Ryōta now understood his attachment to Yuki's flowers. He had noticed the similarity between the sender's name and that of the photograph's subject: Yuki, Yukio; that much was obvious. Now, as he gazed at the sunset illuminating the right half of Yukio's face and extending far behind him, stretching across the sky, he realised the colours of the flowers matched the hues of his phone's wallpaper. They matched the colours of one of his favourite pictures, not just of Yukio, but of all the people he had ever known. These pictures, these sneaky photographs taken without the subjects' knowledge were the best kind. Ryōta was used to posed, controlled, edited and paraded pictures. He preferred these ones. There was nothing pretend in Yukio's expression - the sincere smile, the resolute, steely blue eyes, the left of which bore through the shadow enveloping that side of his face - nor in his relaxed posture. He had turned to face Ryōta just as the shutter clicked, capturing such a peaceful, carefree moment of a man that spent most of his days stressed out by extensive basketball training and pivotal examinations at university. Ryōta smiled at the memory of the proceeding expression on Yukio's face: comical surprise at what was from then on dubbed as his 'modelling debut'.

    It may have been a joke, but 'modelling debut' did certainly seem to fit such a picture. Ryōta knew for a fact the hours of labour photographers would put in for such a shot. But no photo shoot could create this beauty. The breeze did not ruffle Yukio's hair in a controlled manner, and there was no fancy lighting casting the glowing hue across his skin. Software may well be able to create gorgeous patterns, but only Nature could paint those roseate skies to such perfection, and Ryōta liked to think she did it especially for him and his lover, for that moment. For that photograph.

    Nature was thanked liberally and often, as often as Ryōta looked at his phone, for her work. Not just for the background, but for the subject as well. Yukio gave off his own glow. It wasn't dramatic or blinding. It was soft, yet still bold. A silver - nay, platinum - mixed with blue aura that surrounded his being and wrapped itself around loved ones; it looked cold, but was actually warm and comforting.

    Well, that's how Ryōta thought of it. He was sure that if he said anything, Yukio would tell him to stick to modelling and sports, and to never venture into writing.  
The best thing of all was that this picture was not paraded. It was Ryōta's, and Ryōta's alone. It was a small part of Kasamatsu Yukio that he wouldn't have to share with the world. Okay, there were other things, but Ryōta fancied himself as a bit of a poet and found this a more entertaining and dramatic conclusion.  
  
    He had been grilled that day with questions about Yukio. The television programme's presenter was eager to hear stories from the already established Kise Ryōta about the up-and-coming Kasamatsu Yukio. Like Ryōta himself, Yukio had continued playing basketball after their time at Kaijō, although unlike Ryōta, who had been scouted professionally in his third year of high school, Yukio first received offers in his second year of university, and only accepted them after his third year examinations. He was practical like that. He was known in the basketball community before then, being an acclaimed high school point guard, and he just so happened to be one of Ryōta's former captains. So naturally, the presenter was curious about him.

    Ryōta regaled to the camera stories about Yukio's captaincy, their teammates, their tournaments. He kept some things vague, not mentioning names when he told the story in which somebody got a concussion from being trampled by a small army of Ryōta's fans, but with each tale gave a subtle glance to the cameras to let his friends know that, "Yes, I _am_ talking about you, Moriyama." 

    Ryōta answered all questions with a smile. His trademark smile. The one that made Yukio scowl, or cringe, or something along those lines. It was fake, of course, but it's not as if the audience knew that. His real friends saw his real smile. This Ryōta was the only Ryōta the populace knew.

    Kise Ryōta: professional basketball player, model, and all-round idol since his teens. For as long as he could remember, he'd been held up against the light, scrutinised, obliged to act perfect. From a young age, prodigious older sisters - one in academics, the other in the arts - had created a heavy weight of expectation that rested on his young shoulders. As soon as he'd found his calling in sport, and acquired sufficient enthusiasm for basketball, all eyes were upon him. After the younger sister had introduced him to the world of modelling, his fate had been decided. He was under a microscope, and had managed to keep up the façade for so long that he wasn't sure where it ended and his true self began.

    One of the many reasons that Ryōta loved Yukio was that he wasn't fooled by the mask, nor did he care about its associations of miraculousness; he treated Ryōta like any upperclassman would treat their younger, and while he had seen Ryōta as an asset to the Kaijō basketball team (the ace), Yukio had never once considered him as superior as an individual. Within the seven years they had known each other, Yukio had managed to strip Ryōta of all covers. He had looked at the barefaced truth that would have silenced the applauding audience. The public's love was based on blind admiration; Yukio's was honest and true. 

    _Too dark_ , Ryōta thought, _the street lamps aren't bright enough_. People may have considered Ryōta the golden boy since he was a schoolchild, but in all his years of encouraged arrogance, no one had ever made him feel brighter than Yukio had. He just wanted Yukio there, with him.  
  
    The dim glow of the street lamp drifted over Yuki's flowers. Ryōta stared at them, admiring their quiet beauty. He had a newfound appreciation for these particular roses after another pining session. They weren't elaborate, nor were they plain. They were exquisite, but didn't need affirmation for themselves. Ryōta sometimes wished to be like that, more like the flowers and the people he admired. Confident in themselves without an insatiable need for approval. He pretended to be so in a perfect disguise that fooled his audience.

    Maybe if he stared long enough, the flowers' colours reflected would suffuse into him, and he could become the person he pretended to be. He wanted to shine like that without needing gilded armour within which to hide.  
  
    Unfortunately, though, for the foreseeable future that was how it would have to stay. Ryōta heaved a sigh as he stepped out of the car and made his way into the hotel. He picked up Yuki's flowers, thanked the driver, checked in (under a pseudonym), and ran into an empty lift in one mad dash. He couldn't linger much anywhere these days. He had thought the worst of it had passed, but since Yukio and a few other players he knew from the high school leagues had began their professional careers, he had once again been thrust into the limelight. The gifts had made their comeback too it seemed. Ryōta couldn't deny the affinity he had with the flowers in his hands, but remembering the rose horde back in the dressing room that would no doubt make their way back to him somehow (it wouldn't be the first time that he'd left gifts at locations without warning, and was expecting to hear an exasperated call from his manager the following morning) he let out a groan. He used to enjoy presents in the early days, but by now he had just grown bored and strangely insulted by the onslaught of love. It was hard to distinguish between the genuinely reverent tributes, like Ryōta was fairly sure the roses he held were, and the superficial ones that tended to be from 'fans' with a superiority complex over others, who Ryōta referred to as the 'holier-than-thou dictators' of the fan base. These fans sent him gifts to assert their position, as if to say, "Look how much I love Ryōta-sama, way more than you." Sometimes, he felt bad for feeling this way, but the years of this business had numbed him, and by now, at midnight, unlocking the door to an empty room after hours under baking, blinding studio lights in a stiff collar and skin-suffocating makeup, he just did not care.

    _I could quit. I really could. Quit modelling, quit being a celebrity, and just play basketball_. He said this after every interview, photo shoot, television appearance, and so on. He never quit though. He knew that after a few days of rest, he'd be itching to go again, because as emotionally taxing, physically draining and mentally exhausting as the spotlight was, it was his drug. He'd loved attention since he was born, he couldn't be without it. He was a natural entertainer. _And_ , he thought, stroking a now hydrated pink petal, _there are some perks._  
  
    Ryōta's floral companion seemed to flush under his touch. How he wished to see that same colour, due to the same contact, on flesh. The nights when he couldn't return home were the worst. They were always the first reason he always came up with when debating whether or not to quit. He knew, though, that Yukio wouldn't let him unless it became unbearable, or detrimental to his health, or both. Ryōta wouldn't let himself quit either, knowing just as well as, if not more than, Yukio that it would just make him restless and irritable. He couldn't give it up, not just yet.

    If Ryōta told his sixteen-years-old self that one day he would be in a luxury suite with countless fans and numerous, beautiful men and women in the modelling industry ready and willing to share it with him, yet he'd be pining after his small apartment and his grumpy Kaijō captain with whom he shared it with, then he most definitely wouldn't believe himself.

    When they first met, Ryōta hadn't even expected to come to like Yukio, let alone love him. Yet, within a few months, respect for his captain flooded his being; he came to the conclusion that he actually quite liked him soon after. It wasn't as if he'd never had to work for someone's respect before, but he couldn't recall a time someone so seemingly ordinary had made him do so. Not only that, but Yukio talked down to him, the illustrious name of Teikō rendered meaningless. Something about that excited him. It made him want to prove himself - prove this captain wrong. He worked hard, harder than he ever had, just to change Yukio's opinion of him. It was during his second year at high school, shortly before the Interhigh, that Ryōta realised he'd been pushing himself to the limit for Yukio and Yukio only. The latter had paid a visit to his old team, and its newcomers, during a free day he had from student commitments. The second Ryōta saw him, he instantly stepped up his game, looking across the gym after every pass, every basket, in the hope he'd catch eyes staring back at him. The disappointment he felt upon realisation that those eyes were moving about the room ( _Why aren't they focused on me?_ ) alerted him to the fact that he had been seeking for Yukio's approval, striving to reach his level.

    Within a year, Ryōta had realised that he had stopped reaching out to get a hold on Yukio's level; rather, he was reaching out to take hold of Yukio himself. Once he had realised that, it was something he just couldn't shake off. It clung to him, digging its claws in, refusing to let go. Ryōta was scared. His admiration and appreciation had changed shape into something completely alien to him. It was unnerving, yet addictive. He craved the feeling; he _needed_ Yukio. He'd developed such a reliance on one person, something he'd tried so earnestly never to do, that only Yukio's presence could instil a feeling of true comfort and home unto him. So many times had Ryōta been ready and willing to drop everything and rush home, and at the times when he couldn't do that, he would find himself mentally writing his letter of resignation. Just one request of Yukio's would be all it took, he felt. However, all knew, his thirst for the spotlight would draw him back in.  
  
    Whenever Ryōta talked to Yukio about all these things, these uncertain and fluctuating thoughts, he was met with the same sort of responses: "You're the only one who knows what you really want. At the end of the day, it's all on you. I can only help you so much, and even then I can't do that 'til you're more sure of yourself." This was usually followed by ruffling of hair and a soft kiss on the temple.

    Ryōta knew it wasn't fair, him making half-hearted vows to cut his schedule down, and never doing so. He also knew that Yukio would probably never ask him to, even if he wanted it. They had the same conversation with the same result more often than Ryōta thought was reasonable, but it was always him who instigated it. He felt like an idiot, but knew that venting his spleen was better than letting it fester within him. Yukio would be able to tell something was bothering him anyway, and so it would just be pointless.  
  
    One could barely see the sky with all the city lights on this particular night, not that Ryōta was particularly trying to see it. Staring blindly out at the scene before him, he wondered how much longer his relationship could take of the current situation. Could it take the strain? Ryōta's biggest fear, one that ate away at him on the loneliest nights like this one, was that Yukio could no longer live in such a way. He got lonely too. It wasn't a lack of faith on Ryōta's part, but knowledge that many would have left long ago; he himself was surprised that he had stayed, being as flighty as he always thought he had been. It was a difficult sort of life to lead, lovers being separated from each other due to work, and an extremely common cause for total separation. The last thing Ryōta wanted was for Yukio to be unhappy... Well, joint last with a break up. Yet, as he knew, these two things often went hand in hand.

    Ryōta shook his head to dispel these unproductive (and depressing) thoughts. He needed sleep. He'd do the photo shoot as best as he could, so it would be over quicker. Then, he could go home. It would only be for that night, seeing as he had to make up for two days worth of missed basketball training, but it would be enough to replenish his energy. He was exhausted. He had a quick shower, changed his clothes, and got into bed. He turned the lights off and checked his phone one last time before settling down to sleep.

    There was only one thing that could catch his attention before his picture of Yukio, and that was a text from him. The screens glare hurt Ryōta's eyes, but he didn't care. He had more important things to worry about, such as the text that read: "I hope you're doing okay. Just wanted to say goodnight, and good luck for tomorrow." It was so sweet, so simple, and so him. It was perfect, it was all Ryōta needed to know, but he still couldn't silence the nagging inside of himself. There were so many things he wanted to say in reply, but he didn't want to trouble Yukio at this time. He was probably tired. There was only one satisfactory term to wrap up all these thoughts and feelings safely. Ryōta's mind thought: _I'm so lonely, I can't stand this big room all to myself, I'm so tired, I don't know how much more of this I can take, I don't know how much more of this you can take, I'm worried for you, for me, for us, I just want you to be happy, happy with me, I'm scared of what's going to happen, you're too important to me, you're fantastic, you're incredible, you're beautiful, I can't see myself without you, I want you here, I want to be with you, I miss you so damn much_. Ryōta's hand typed: "I love you."

    Almost instantly, he received a reply. He read it, knowing the exchange was over. Both he and Yukio were going to bed - to separate beds, alone. Yuki's flowers stood illuminated by the soft light seeping through the thin, sheer curtains. They carried a quiet, sad beauty, as if they felt and reflected their owner. Some do say plants can sense emotion.

    Ryōta paid no mind to them though. He let the near emptiness of the room wash over him, repeating Yukio's last four words in his head to comfort him. They seemed to echo in the hollowness of the room, their attempt to fill it. Four short words, enough to weave little ribbons of light through darkness: "I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Commas are my best friend, apparently.  
> I’ll write more Kikasa fics following up on topics touched on in this, hopefully with more actual interaction. Also, I didn’t intend to make assumptions about Kise’s family, it just sort of happened and I’m quite intrigued by them now.  
> I like writing Kise.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
